


welcome home.

by nuuboo (orphan_account)



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 04:27:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nuuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over. It's not all smooth sailing, but tomorrow will still come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	welcome home.

Iruka woke from the dream state, groggy and tired. Sniffling, whining children brought him back to his senses, and he’d spent the better part of the day keeping the calm in the region. Murmurs rippled through the crowds, traveling like water; _‘the war’s over’_ , they said, whispering it as though they feared the thought of it being false. He didn’t blame them. He felt a child hug his knee, and he patted her head with a comforting, strained smile. 

***

The hospital was buzzing, nurses running around with little patience and no time for anyone but the injured. Iruka’s hesitant inquiries after a one Hatake Kakashi got him many irritated glares, exasperated sighs, and a few kind finger-pointing in vague directions. Eventually, after many corners and even more awkward peeking into rooms better left undisturbed, Iruka spotted the familiar slouch of a man too tired to stand much longer, with his signature silver hair a complete mess. Kakashi had taken to standing in silence, staring listlessly at the door to one occupied operation room. From what Iruka had gathered, Gai had suffered extremely from one of his more valiant techniques, and the diagnosis of his physical state hadn’t been a positive one. 

“Hey,” he said, trying not to seem too obvious in the way he scanned Kakashi’s bodies for injuries. The large slashes across Kakashi’s vest were concerning, but if the material wasn’t bloodied enough for medics to rush him off to a room himself, Iruka figured he could quell his frantic worry—for now. Kakashi looked rather as though he couldn’t handle any conversation where Iruka’s voice rose even slightly above normal speaking tone, and, just then, Iruka felt infinitely sorry for him. “You’re back.”

“I am,” replied Kakashi, turning to give Iruka the best expression he could manage—which turned out to be something more of an exhausted, strained grimace than anything resembling a reassuring smile at all. Iruka responded with a smile of his own, silently grateful for everything under the sun all at once: that the grass was still green, that the sky was still blue, that tomorrow would still come, and that Kakashi had returned home alive and relatively well, considering. 

His forehead protector hung loosely around his head, tilted as it always was. Iruka moved forward quietly, resting his hands on Kakashi’s shoulders with a feather-light touch. Relieved that Kakashi hadn’t crumbled under the weight, Iruka moved his hands to his cheeks, to his head, and eased off the fabric. 

“You’ve worked hard,” he murmured, slowly rubbing circles against Kakashi’s temples. Kakashi made a non-committal grunt, and closed his eyes to the touch. There were some things worth fighting for that sometimes ranked higher than protecting his village, Kakashi thought; the gentle warmth of Iruka’s hands was one of them, an everlasting wish lingering pathetically in the back of his mind as he fought, rested, and fought again. Had he the energy to do it, he’d have held Iruka’s hand in his own, if only to absorb as much of that warmth as possible. The hospital hallway was cold, but their isolation was worth the price. 

When Kakashi looked at Iruka, it took Iruka a few minutes to figure out the small difference in his gaze. He narrowed his eyes, confused, and Kakashi looked off at the wall nearby. 

“What happened?” Iruka asked, in a tone Kakashi knew to mean that nothing other than a perfectly straightforward answer would be acceptable. “Where is your—”

“It’s gone.” It would suffice, he decided, to say that much. He could barely stand on his feet, much less explain in full detail the awkwardly sudden and painful loss he suffered at Madara’s hands. 

Iruka, however, remained baffled. “Where… did it go?” he asked, clearly suggesting that something like the _sharingan_ didn’t have an expiry date. Kakashi sighed, grateful only that Iruka’s hands were still warm against his head.

“Madara took it.” Took, because no-one could steal something that didn’t rightly belong to him, he thought—no matter the circumstances of the gift. Recalling the moment, he clenched his jaw in silence. Chancing a glance at Iruka (who had been surprisingly silent after that short explanation), he found that his partner looked absolutely appalled. 

“What do you mean he _took it?_ ” he asked, tone rising in a way that made Kakashi grimace again. Iruka stopped, mumbled a hushed apology, and frowned. After a moment, he thought to himself that at the very least, Kakashi still had two functioning eyes. His optimism only went so far, with Kakashi’s dulled expression and heavy silence; it was a great loss, the effects of which he could only barely fathom. 

They remained as they were, standing in their small corner of the over-occupied, hectic ward. Kakashi never moved; not once did he stray from Iruka’s hold, from the way Iruka’s thumbs massaged his head in a way that staved off his headache better than any medicine ever could. 

“How do you feel?” Iruka asked, slow and hesitant. 

Kakashi inhaled deeply, staring at the scuffed floor tiles and the chipped paint on the wall beside him. He could hear the shouts of nurses, the groans of wounded shinobi, the muffled sobs of happy wives and grieving lovers. The war was over, and the price for it was higher than anyone wanted to pay—but they were alive, and Iruka was here, and the sunset was just as red as it was before he left. _These little things_ , he thought, _when did I start valuing them so much?_

“I don’t know,” said Kakashi, raising a hand with supreme effort so that it rested on Iruka’s. “I don’t know, exactly… not right now, anyway…” He stopped and stared at Iruka—Iruka, with his patient stare and his messy hair and his kind, small smile—and thought that he was, absolutely, a man luckier than he should be. “But I think… like this, I think I feel just a little more _free._ ”


End file.
